by Marian Keyes
Saturday morning was spent obsessively foraging, but nothing suited. They were either too pink, too orange, too frosted, too shiny, too dark, too pale or too shimmering. Experimenting with being someone else, she tried on a vampy dark-red colour and viewed herself in the mirror. No. She looked as though she’d been on a fourteen-hour spree, drinking red wine which had congealed and solidified on her mouth. Attempting a smile, she looked like Dracula. The sales girl came running. ‘That’s fabulous on you.’
Ashling managed to escape and the hunt continued. The back of her hand, criss-crossed with red stripes, looked like an open wound. And then, just when hope was fading, she found it. The perfect one. It was love at first sight and Ashling knew with a deep warm conviction that everything was going to be all right now.
Marcus was picking Ashling up at eight-thirty, so at seven o’clock she poured herself a glass of wine and let the preparations commence. It had been a long time since she’d gone for dinner with a man. She and Phelim had had a lazy, comfortable routine of takeaways and only ever went to restaurants when they’d had enough of delivered pizzas and curries. Meals out had been strictly utilitarian exercises in nourishment, not seduction – they’d employed other methods for getting each other into bed. When Phelim was in the mood he used to say, ‘Beast with two backs, any takers?’ and when Ashling was instigating matters she’d command, ‘Ravish me!’
And what would sex with Marcus be like? A terrified, excited fizz lit her nerve-endings and she pawed for her cigarettes. Joy couldn’t have picked a better time to arrive.
She complimented Ashling on her clothes, pulled down the waistband on her jeans and admired her choice of thong, then asked, ‘Did you remember to put conditioner on your pubic hair?’
Ashling winced and Joy looked wounded. ‘These things matter! Well, did you?’
Ashling nodded.
‘Good girl. How long is it since you had sex? When Phelim went to Oz?’
‘When he came home for his brother’s wedding.’
‘And you’re really going for it with Mr Valentine?’
‘Why else would I put conditioner on my pubic hair?’ Anticipation rendered Ashling irritable.
‘Excellento! So you like him?’
Ashling considered. ‘I could really come to like him. We get on well, and he’s attractive but not too attractive. People like me never get off with male models or actors or the kind of men that people say, “God, he’s really good-looking.” You know what I mean?’
‘You’re freaking me out. What else?’
‘We like the same kind of films.’
‘And they are?’ Joy enquired.
‘Ones in English.’
Phelim had showed an irritating tendency to think of himself as an intellectual and often talked about going to foreign and subtitled films. He’d never actually gone, but used to distress Ashling by reading aloud reviews and suggesting that they might go.
‘Marcus is just kind of ordinary,’ Ashling explained. ‘He doesn’t go bungee jumping or protest against motorways or anything mental. No insane hobbies, I like that in a man.’
‘What else?’
‘I like…’ Suddenly Ashling turned on Joy and said savagely, ‘If you ever tell this to anyone I’ll kill you.’
‘I promise,’ Joy lied.
‘I like that he’s sort of famous. That he gets mentioned in the paper and that people know about him. Yes, I know, that makes me shallow, but I’m being honest with you.’
‘How are his freckles?’
‘Freckly.’ A pause followed. ‘Look, I’ve one or two myself,’ Ashling said defensively. ‘There’s no shame in them.’
‘I’m only saying…’
‘There’s Ted at the door. Let him in, will you?’
Ted came into the bedroom, obviously excited. ‘Look at this,’ he yelped, and unfurled a poster.
‘It’s you!’ Ashling declared.
It was a picture of Ted’s face on top of an owl’s body with the words ‘Owl Ted Mullins’ across the top of the page.
‘Wow, that’s fantastic!’
‘I’m getting them printed, but what do you think?’ He unfurled another poster and let one hang from between each thumb and index finger. ‘Red background or blue background?’
‘Red,’ Joy said.
‘Blue,’ Ashling said.
‘I don’t know,’ Ted mused. ‘Clodagh says –’
‘What Clodagh?’ Ashling barked an interruption. ‘Who Clodagh? My friend Clodagh?’
‘Yes, I called around to her…’
‘What for?’
‘To collect my jacket,’ Ted said defensively. ‘What’s the biggie? I left my jacket when we were babysitting, it’s hardly a crime.’
Ashling couldn’t explain her resentment. She had no option but to mutter, ‘Right. Sorry.’
A tense silence reigned. ‘Pass me my new lipstick please,’ Ashling said shortly.
She tipped it from its box and twisted up the waxy finger, shiny and new. Gorgeous. But as she admired it, she was afflicted with a sudden, very unwelcome awareness.
‘I don’t believe it,’ she breathed. Quickly she inspected the base of the lipstick, launched a searching scramble in her make-up bag, unearthed another lipstick and checked the base of that also. ‘I don’t fucking believe it,’ she exclaimed, in despair.
‘What?!’
‘I’ve bought the same lipstick. I spent all morning looking for a new lipstick and I’m after buying exactly the same one I had already.’
With a passionate rush of I’m such a failure, Ashling was all set to hurl herself on the bed, except the bell rang. The alarm clock on her dressing table said half past eight. Which meant it was twenty past.
‘That better bloody not be Marcus Valentine at the door,’ she threatened.
It was.
‘What kind of man arrives early?’ Joy asked.
‘A gentleman,’ Ashling said, not at all convinced.
‘A weirdo,’ Joy said, not quite under-her-breath enough.
‘Out, the pair of you.’
‘Make sure you use a condom,’ Joy hissed, then they were gone. Seconds later Marcus appeared up the stairs, all smiles.
‘Hi,’ Ashling said. ‘I’m nearly ready. Would you like a beer or something?’
‘A cup of tea. I’ll make it, don’t worry about me.’
While she hurriedly finished preparing she heard him opening cupboards and drawers in the kitchen.
‘Cute apartment,’ Marcus called in to her.
Ashling wished he’d be quiet. Providing witty repartee while applying lipstick was not one of her strengths.
‘Small but perfectly formed,’ she called back absently.
‘Like its owner.’
Which was nothing near the truth, Ashling thought, but it was nice of him to say so.
And that kind of set the tone. She cheered up, put the lipstick shame behind her, brushed her hair and went forth to meet his admiration.
Before they left Marcus insisted on washing his teacup.
‘Leave it,’ Ashling said, as he dashed it under the running water.
‘Ah no.’ He placed it on the draining-board and turned to her with a grin. ‘My Mammy taught me well’
She got that feeling again. More buds poking their heads up.
The place he took her to was intimate and rosy-lit. At a corner table, with their knees occasionally touching, they drank cold white wine so dry it sucked at their teeth, and admired each other, dewy-skinned and flawless in the candlelight.
‘Hey, I like your…’ And he gestured at Ashling’s shell top. ‘I never know the right word for women’s clothes. T-shirt? I’ve a feeling I could cause grave offence by calling that a T-shirt. But what do I call it? A top? A blouse? A shirt? A vest? Whatever it is I like it’
‘It’s called a shell top.’
‘So what’s a blouse then?’
Ashling took him through the various options. ‘You must never, ever say “blouse
” to any woman under sixty,’ she said gravely. ‘You can compliment a woman on her vest if you mean a sleeveless T-shirt. Not if it really is a vest. In fact if it really is a vest, I’d advise you to leave immediately.’
Marcus nodded. ‘I see. God, it’s a minefield.’
‘Hold on.’ It had just occurred to her. ‘Are you pumping me for info for your act?’
‘Would I do that?’ he smiled.
The food was unobtrusive, the talk was easy, but Ashling had the feeling that it was all a type of prelude. A trailer. With the main feature to come later.
When the bill arrived she made a half-hearted attempt to contribute.
‘No,’ Marcus insisted, ‘I’m having none of it.’
Because you expect to be having plenty of it later
Out on the street he asked, ‘What now?’
Ashling shrugged, then couldn’t help giggling. Surely it was obvious?
‘My place?’ he suggested softly.
He kissed Ashling in the taxi. And again in the hall of his flat. It felt very nice, but when they broke apart, she couldn’t help looking around, checking the place out. She fancied him, but she was also keen to see how he lived, to find out about him.
It was a one-bedroomed apartment in a modern block and the grunge factor was surprisingly low.
‘But it doesn’t smell funny!’
‘I told you, my Mammy trained me well.’
She turned into his living-room. ‘Look at all your videos,’ she gasped. There seemed to be hundreds lining the walls.
‘We could watch something if you like,’ he said.
She did like. Torn between attraction to him and childish nerves, she welcomed a delay.
‘Pick one,’ he invited.
But when she began scanning the shelves, she slowly realized something odd. Monty Python, Blackadder, Lenny Bruce, Laurel and Hardy, Father Ted, Mr Bean, The Marx Brothers, Eddie Murphy – they were all comedy videos.
She was confused. On their first date they’d had a lively discussion on their favourite films. He’d claimed to like a wide variety of stuff, but you’d never know it from looking at his shelves. Eventually she plumped for The Life of Brian.
‘An excellent choice, if I may say so, madam!’ He produced a bottle of white wine for her, a can of beer for himself, and they tentatively snuggled together in front of the telly.
Ten minutes into the film Marcus touched her bare shoulder with his index finger and began to stroke it slowly. ‘Asssh-liiing,’ he crooned with an intensity which flipped her stomach. Almost afraid, she looked at him quickly. He was staring at the screen. ‘Now watch carefully,’ he urged, in the same low tone. ‘One of the greatest comedy moments of all time is coming up.’
Mildly disappointed but ever obedient she paid attention and when Marcus dissolved into convulsions she couldn’t help laughing herself. Then he swivelled round to her and asked, like a cute little boy, ‘Would you mind, Ashling?’
‘What!?’ Sleeping with me?
‘If we watched that again.’
‘Oh! Not at all’
When her heart rate had slowed down to normal she decided she was touched that he wanted to share what was important to him.
‘So were they pleased about me saying I’d do the column?’ he asked, some time later.
‘Oh, delighted!’
‘That Lisa, she’s some piece of work, eh?’
‘Very persuasive.’ Ashling wasn’t sure how smart it would be to start slagging off Lisa.
‘You should get the credit for it, though.’
‘But I didn’t do anything.’
Marcus looked at her with meaning. ‘You could tell them you persuaded me when we were in bed together.’
The naked intent in his look made her throat seize up. Then she swallowed as if eating an oyster. ‘But that wouldn’t be true.’
A long pause, where his eyes never wavered from hers. ‘We could make it true.’
Her high spirits had worn off. Disappeared, in fact. It felt too soon to go to bed with him, but to resist would seem old-fashioned. She simply could not understand the ridiculous timidity which paralysed her – she was thirty-one years old, she’d had sex with lots of men.
‘Come on.’ He stood up and tugged gently at her hand. Something was telling her that he wouldn’t take no for an answer.
‘But the film…’
‘I’ve seen it before.’
No kidding.
Shyness wrestled with curiosity, attraction fought with fear of intimacy. She wanted to sleep with him and yet she didn’t, but his urgent need was compelling. She found herself on her feet. A kiss went some way to persuading her, and she was in his bedroom. It wasn’t a fluid dance where fumbling disappeared and clothes dissolved without clumsiness. He hadn’t been able to get the hang of unhooking her bra, and when she saw how large his erection seemed in the narrowness of his hips, she had to look away. She trembled like a terrified virgin.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘I’m shy.’
‘So it’s not because of me?’
‘Oh no.’ His vulnerability made her try harder. She gathered him to her, which had the double effect of pleasing him and ensuring she no longer had to see his hardness springing from its nest of hair.
The sheets were fresh, the candles a surprising touch, he was thoughtful and attentive and never once remarked on her absence of waist, but she had to admit that no, she wasn’t entirely transported. However, he was very appreciative, and she enjoyed that. It certainly wasn’t the worst sexual experience she’d ever had. And the best sex had always been slightly unreal, usually taking place during making up with Phelim, when the joy of being reunited added an extra piquancy to an already compatible experience.
She was a big girl now and expecting the earth to move was unrealistic. Anyway, the first time she’d had sex with Phelim it hadn’t set the world on fire either.
38
On Sunday morning Clodagh woke, perched precariously on the six inches at the edge of the bed. Craig had shunted her to the margin of the bed, but it could quite easily have been Molly or both of them. She couldn’t remember the last time she and Dylan had slept unchaperoned, and she was so well practised at sleeping hanging over the side that she was sure she could manage a great night’s sleep on the edge of a cliff, at this stage.
Something was telling her it was very early. Five o’clock early. The sun was up and the gap where the calico curtains didn’t quite meet glowed in a line of acid-bright light, but she knew it was too soon to be awake. The unseen seagulls beyond her window wailed shrill and plaintive. They sounded like babies from a horror film. Beside Craig, Dylan slept heavily, his limbs thrown across the bed in a random tangle, his breath whistling rhythmically in and out, each exhalation lifting his hair from his forehead.
Despondency lay heavy upon her. She’d had a bad week. After the disaster with the employment agency, Ashling had urged her to get a second opinion. So she’d put her expensive suit back on and tried again. The second employment agency treated her with almost as much disdain as the first had. But to her enormous surprise, the third proposed sending her for a two-day trial, making tea and answering the phone at a radiator-supply firm. ‘The pay is… modest,’ the recruitment man had admitted, ‘but for someone like you who’s been out of the workplace for a long time, it’s a good start. They’re bound to love you, so off you go. Good luck!’
‘Oh. Thanks.’ As soon as Clodagh knew she might have a job, she didn’t want it. Making tea and answering the phone, where was the fun in that? She did it at home all the time. And a radiator-supply firm? It sounded so dreary. In a strange way, getting a job and then finding she didn’t want it was almost worse than being told she was unemployable. Though not much given to introspection, she vaguely realized that she wasn’t actually looking for a job – she certainly didn’t need the money – she was looking for glamour and excitement. And the reality was she wasn’t going to find them at a radiator-supply firm.
So she rang Mr Recruitment and pretended she couldn’t start because Craig had got measles. Children had their uses, she reflected. If there was something you didn’t want to do, you could say they had a high temperature and that you were worried about meningitis. It had absolved her from attending Dylan’s Christmas party last year. And the year before. And she fully intended to use it this year as well.
She shifted uncomfortably. Something sharp was digging into her back. A forage revealed it to be Buzz Lightyear. Outside the window the seagulls shrieked again, their ugly forlorn cries echoing within her. She felt trapped, painted into a corner, blocked. As though she was locked in a small dark airless box, which was getting ever tighter – she couldn’t understand it. She’d always been happy with her lot. Her life had happened exactly as it should and its progress had been ever forward, ever positive. Then, with no warning, it seemed to have stopped. Going nowhere with nothing to look forward to. A horrible thought wormed in – was it going to be like this for ever?
Suddenly she noticed that Dylan’s whistling had reached crescendo level. Seized by a frenzy of intolerance she exploded, ‘Stop breathing!’ With a rough shove to his head she changed the angle of his windpipe.
‘Sorry,’ he mumbled, without waking up. She envied his uncomplicated slumber. Flattened against the mattress, she half-listened to the seagulls until Molly clambered into bed beside her and hit her in the face. Time to get up.
An emergency appendectomy, she thought longingly. Or a mild stroke. Nothing too serious. But one that involved a long stay in a hospital that had very restricted visiting hours.
After her shower she dried herself and spoke briskly to Dylan, who was sitting, yawning, on the edge of the bed. ‘Don’t give Craig any Frosties, he’s asked for them all week, but then he won’t touch them. There’s a new playgroup opening at the bottom of the road, we’re all invited to see it today. I don’t know whether or not to disturb Molly with a move, but she’s so unpopular with the old boot at her current one that maybe it might be a good idea –’
‘We used to talk about more than the kids.’ Dylan sounded weird.
‘Like what?’ Clodagh asked defensively.
